


To Love Him

by Sira



Category: Dances with Wolves (1990)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sira/pseuds/Sira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stands With A Fist muses about love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Love Him

**Author's Note:**

> All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> A million thanks go to sczep84 who looked this ficlet over for me. Thank you, hon! It was originally written for missbevcrusher , although I'll be damned if I remember when and why. *lol*

Countless moons ago, when she’d been a young girl, before her life turned upside down and she ended up a slave to people whose language she didn’t understand, she’d dreamed of a romantic spring wedding. She had known how she wanted it to be like. She would wear a white dress, there’d be flowers in her hair. The best of it all though was that she would marry her best friend. It was natural to marry one’s best friend, wasn’t it?

Later, when she had been living with people her parents had called savages, when she’d begun to forget who she once was, she hadn’t dreamed any longer. She’d lived for survival, one day after the other, was too tired to contemplate the future, anything, really. That was, until she had found her place among the people, until she had gotten her name, had earned it the hard way. Stands With A Fist. That was her name now. Christine… she couldn’t remember Christine. She’d been simply glad, glad to be someone, to finally be more than the work slave she’d been for too long.

When she became the wife of one of the most respected warriors, she had started to think life was good. It hadn’t been her husband’s status she’d been interested in or that he could provide for her. It was the fact he had loved her, that she had someone to give her love to which had her heart sing once more, which brought the smile back to her face. Life had been good. For a while. Until it all had been taken away from her again. For another time, she’d been swept away, felt she was just like a feather in the wind, carried away by a gust of grief. She had thought she was dead then, had been hollow inside. When she’d tried to end her body, it had been only to follow her mind. What should she live for? Wasn’t she only a burden to others anyway?

This day; it had brought another change. John Dunbar had come into her life. A man that terrified her, later intrigued, fascinated her. John Dunbar, the man who had made her long, ache, crave, the man who let her dream of the girl with the flowers in her hair again.

John Dunbar had become Dances With Wolves, and Stands With A Fist had fallen in love.

Closing the tent flap behind them, she found she wasn’t nervous, although she’d expected to be. Today, she had become a wife again, the wife of Dances With Wolves.

Having lived with Sioux for many moons, feeling Sioux herself, she’d always known she was different. It had mattered, to her. It didn’t matter with Dances With Wolves. He, too, was White – he, too, was Sioux.

Turning, she faced him, and it was then she became nervous. They’d made love before, had joined in the communion of flesh. Now though, they belonged together, were family. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she lowered her eyes.

“Look at me.”

His Sioux, still sounding so foreign, endearing, seldom failed to make her smile. It didn’t fail to make her smile today. Looking up at him, she found him watching her with love, with tenderness. He loved her, wanted her. To him, Stands With A Fist was a woman of worth.

Her breath hitched and when he reached out to her, stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb, she fell into the abyss that was Dances With Wolves, knowing this was her place now. Outside their tent, people were still cheering, but she hardly registered it over the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears.

She didn’t know who moved first, if it was he or she, but seemingly without any conscious thought their lips touched, their mouths opening to each other. A shiver ran down her back, and his tongue slid slowly into her mouth, finding hers, teasing her. They kissed slowly, leisurely, knew they had all day. Goose bumps rose on her body, her nipples tightening in delicious anticipation, wet heat pooling at the apex of her thighs.

Stands With A Fist had known lust, want, love but only with him, with Dances With Wolves, it was more than just that, it was a need, something she couldn’t be without any longer. They kissed and kissed, probing each other’s depths, revelling in touch, taste, sound. Their clothes hit the ground quickly, the need to feel skin under their fingertips imminent. Good, he felt so good, and her hands roamed his body greedily.

Sinking down on the ground, he hovered over her, kissing her again and again, soft kisses that were only the ghost of a true touch, lazy kisses exploring every crevice of her mouth, deep kisses that had her quiver with want. All the while his hands touched her everywhere, fingers trailing over her breasts, her stomach, one hand sliding between her legs, two fingers entering her moist sex with tender purpose.

Floating, she was floating on a sea of desire, a heady sensation caused by the man who held her heart. Sliding a leg over his waist, digging the heel of her foot into his firm backside, she let him know what she wanted, needed. Right now she needed all of him, needed him to fill the emptiness inside of her with his hard flesh. Only joined with him was she whole. His fingers left her, and although she knew it had to be, she whimpered at the loss.

He shushed her with a kiss, turned them so she was on top.

A smile played around his lips, one hand, sticky from pleasuring her, resting on her hip, the other reaching up to cup her chin with the palm of his hand.

“Make love to me,” he said in English.

Holding his gaze for a long moment, she let him see what he did to her, how much her heart, her flesh longed for him. Turning her head, she pressed a kiss into the palm of his hand before she got on her knees, positioning herself. Sinking down on him, she hummed, the lines of love, longing and desire blurring.

She hadn’t been a bride with flowers in her hair. It didn’t matter.

This was better.

This was how it was supposed to be.

THE END


End file.
